


The Way We Love

by StrongerThanAnySword



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Broken Laurent, Considerate Lovers, Healing Touch (Nonsexual), Healing Touch (Sexual), M/M, Mention of abuse, Mention of non/dubcon, Panic, Panic Attacks, Uncertain Laurent, affirmations, mention of rape, mention of underage, protective Damen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7045336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrongerThanAnySword/pseuds/StrongerThanAnySword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after _Kings Rising_.  Laurent and Damen are getting on well, but Laurent has a lot of healing to do.  Spans a large gap of time, will likely start soon after the coup in KR and jump large time periods.  </p><p>Multichapter, each chapter more of a blurb than anything--cliffhangers will be few to none.  :)  Not going to be smut, but largely dealing with Laurent's past (check the tags!), so there will be sexual instances and mentions (again, check the tags~).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Night Free

**Author's Note:**

> This one is going to be a little sexual (first night that Damen is cleared to Do Things after KR), so heads up!

Damen's side is not bothering him, or so he says, and even if it were, Laurent knows that Damen wouldn't be telling him.  He is closing the door to the king's chambers, and he is looking at Laurent, and the torches are flickering and casting shadows onto Damen's already-shaded eyes.  He looks like a predator, actually licking his lips a little.

 

Laurent feels a sickly weight in his throat, a low burn in his gut, and a pleasantly painful skip in his heartbeat.  He still feels silly wearing the short summer chiton, feels exposed and uncertain, but the way Damen is looking at him now is all the reward he needs.  Yet he swallows, hard, and he backs up quickly when Damen stalks forward--too quickly to stop, stumbling and falling back onto the bed, struggling to sit up, near panic at the unexpected fall, heartbeat spiking,  _where is he-_

 

Damen is just steps away from the door, unmoving, looking hurt, looking worried, one hand outstretched, clearly dying to touch ( _to aid?_ ) and standing still by sheer force of will.

 

Laurent's shoulders relax just slightly, and Damen sees.

 

"We don't have to," he murmurs, lowering his eyes in submission even as he pads slowly, carefully toward the bed.  "We don't have to do anything."

 

It is the first night they are to have together since...Laurent fights not to remember the revelations that the Regent had tossed out so casually, struggles to not scratch at his skin as he used to when his thoughts would take this bent as he sat alone in his chambers in Vere, swallows down the rising nausea, tries to focus on Damen and Damen's eyes and the way his eyebrows come together above them, worried, clearly very worried for Laurent.  Laurent struggles to breathe.

 

Damen has reached the bed, and Laurent has somehow managed to scramble into the middle of its frankly ridiculous size, and he longs to touch and be touched, but how much of that is really him, and how much is it his mind begging to plummet off this cliff, obliterate himself?  How much has he fought and struggled to squash that urge?  Which is present now?  Is it both? Does he give up those victories if he jumps headlong into this? The thought closes his throat, pure panic setting in.

 

Damen does not come any closer, but he watches for a moment longer.

 

And then, Damen kneels.

 

Laurent feels his jaw drop and his eyes widen.

 

"Laurent."  Damen speaks softly, as he had to the horses this afternoon, as he had to the shy child who had run up to them the morning before with a spray of flowers in her fist, the same gentle smile curling just the very corners of his mouth.  Just enough to look friendly and encouraging and safe.  Laurent knows then--sweet, gentle Damen sees him. He sees what is going through Laurent's head. Yet his shoulders don't relax.  He has to be careful. Not because Damen is a monster, not like him, yet...what if he is?

 

"Laurent."  Damen simply repeats his name and settles closer to the ground, sitting on his heels.  His eyes are on Laurent's, warm and brown and worried.  Laurent realizes his shoulders are slumping a little, and tries to stiffen back up, but he's caught in the same damn spell that Damen always seems to cast, and it is  _not fair_ but it is working all the same.  One beautiful tanned arm shifts from under his chin and it settles on the bed between them, palm up, an invitation that Laurent does not want to consider, yet yearns desperately to accept.  "It's all right, Laurent.  It's all right."  The fingers twitch slightly, beckoning, as Damen re-settles himself on his heels.  Laurent can't look away from it.  He swallows.

 

One fair hand creeps down his own chest from where it had been resting, and his heart is thudding again but he swallows again and closes his eyes, trying to gather strength, fighting to ignore Damen's gaze.

 

"Why," he whispers, "is this so..."  Difficult.  Impossible.  Terrifying.

 

"It is," Damen murmurs simply, and Laurent finds the courage and strength to pry his eyes open again.  His eyes lock with Damen's, and he freezes, making a decision, slowly walking his hand down the bed to tentatively touch Damen's.

 

The browned hand does not spring shut, does not close painfully around his hand or his arm, does not wrench him close to do him harm.  Instead, it closes slowly--warm, burning almost--around Laurent's hand, not a cage but a cradle, one that Laurent could escape in an instant, and one rough thumb brushes firmly over the back of Laurent's hand.  His chest loosens a little, and Laurent sucks in a breath.  His shoulders sag.

 

"Laurent."  Laurent can't look up so he ducks his head, looking as far away from Damen as he can, ashamed and still frightened, opening his mouth to apologize even as Damen continues.  "Laurent, hush for a moment."

 

Laurent, surprising both of them, obeys, swallowing hard again.

 

"We don't have to do anything tonight," Damen says, echoing his prior statement.  Laurent's mouth opens again and he looks up (why are his eyes stinging?), but Damen's free hand comes up, palm forward, a gentle order to stop.  "I did not know that you didn't want to...and, I suspect, you did not know either."  He is looking at Laurent, too gentle, his gaze like a cushion, like a gentle breeze, like silk.   _Stop,_ Laurent wants to beg, but he doesn't know how.  Damen continues.

 

"I can see that you are afraid," he says simply, "that you are...affected.   _I am glad_ that I know, Laurent.  I wish I didn't, but only because I wish that I couldn't--that it hadn't happened.  I wish that you  _were_ frigid for no reason, that you had no interest, that all of that was--that it was true, for your sake.  You didn't deserve--no one deserves--the things that happened to you.  The things that he did."  There is venom in the word, in the mention of the Regent and his crimes, and Damen sounds again like he should like very much to have some time alone with the man, unprotected, time for Damen to take him apart with blades and make him suffer, and his grip tightens for just a moment before he relaxes again.  "But they did happen, Laurent, and I am glad that I know.  I have had days to think on this..."  Damen swallows then, noisily, and something small and wet plops onto Laurent's lap.  "...Days to look over our every encounter, to see those things anew.  It is all I have thought about."  Laurent's fingernails dig into his leg, and Damen sees that too, sits up and softly keeps talking.

 

"I want you to know that I do not care."

 

The world tilts a little and Laurent feels faint.  Damen...doesn't care?  His stomach plummets.  

 

"I do not care that you were treated badly.  I do not care that you were used.  I do not think of you--"  Laurent's free hand is drawing blood, and Damen's hand envelopes it and pulls it away.  "I do not think of you as dirty, or as someone who is broken, or anything of that sort.  I think of you as  _Laurent."_

 

"Broken Laurent."  Laurent spits his own name, swallows hard against the lump in his throat, face twisting up as hot tears escape his eyes and race down his face.  "Dirty, besmirched, used, thrown away, expired, unlovable Laurent.  That is who I am."

 

" _Laurent."_  Damen is shifting forward, is sitting on the bed, chiton riding up as he leans forward, gently palming Laurent's cheek.  His palm is so warm that Laurent flinches, freezes, before burying his face into it, inhaling Damen's scent even as he hiccups.  "I think of you as  _Laurent,_ who needs to be taken care of at times, who should have my consideration, who deserves to be loved the way he always should have been.   _I love you,_ Laurent, and that means right now--just as you are--I love you.  I love you until I die and beyond, and no condition you could be in will ever change that.  You could be dirty or broken and I would neither think less of you nor love you less--and neither of those are the case.  You are just my heart, you are only my entire world.  There is nothing about you that I do not love, and there is nothing that could ever make me stop."

 

Laurent's tears are flowing freely, soaking into Damen's palm, and he grabs at it, pressing it against his cheek with two desperate hands, trying to anchor it there.  His shoulders shake.  Can he believe him?  Can Damen be speaking true?  What if he isn't?  Why would he lie?  Laurent wants to run and to burrow into Damen's chest at the same time, so he stays still, torn in two, shaking as he sobs.

  
"Let me show you," Damen says, and it is a plea and an offer.  "I want to show you how I feel about you.  I want you to feel trusted, valued, and loved, because you _are_.  I want to show you, but only if you will let me."  Laurent's throat is thick, but he nods, sniffling, shaking and shaken.

 

Damen's free hand slowly pushes Laurent back, pressing gently on his chest until Laurent moves, laying onto his back on the bed, and Damen crawls up onto it at last, towering over him.  Laurent sucks in a breath and fists his hands in the sheets, trembling lightly.

 

Damen's hands move to Laurent's feet.

 

They settle there, gently, thumbs rubbing little circles on the soles, and Laurent squirms slightly, uncertain, but he relaxes into the bed as each touch removes a little more tension, makes him a little more slack.  Damen's hands don't move for minutes--five, ten, more-- and when they do, it is just up to Laurent's calves, where his hands begin the same motions, where again the tension is sucked away at the rhythmic motions, soothing and sure.

 

"I feel-."  Laurent is breathless and he swallows and tries again.  "I feel like a horse being rubbed down."  It is meant to be a complaint but it comes out a sigh, and Damen smiles, and it reaches his eyes.

 

"Good," he says simply.  "That is where I learned to do this."  He grins.  "Though I am taking far more care with you than I do with my horses."  He bends and takes Laurent's breath away again by pressing a simple kiss to Laurent's knee, but it makes Laurent ache and yearn to writhe, uncomfortable and yet somehow enjoying these particular attentions very, very much.  Laurent does not move.

 

"You...had better," he manages.  Damen only chuckles, and slowly moves up past Laurent's knees.  Laurent's breath hitches, and Damen slows down.

 

"It's all right," Damen murmurs.  "You can tell me to stop.  I will."

 

"No-."  Laurent makes a tiny, frustrated noise in his throat.  "No."  Damen's hands falter.

 

"Promise me that you will."

 

"Damen--"

 

"Promise me."

 

"I will, then."  Laurent catches his lip between his teeth and sucks in a breath as the hands start moving again.  It is a simple massage, gentle touches, firm motions, and there is nothing sexual about it, but Laurent is nervous just the same, tensing when Damen's hands go too high, a flush of combined arousal and fear flooding him.  Damen's response is to let go, to tap gently on Laurent's side, directing him to turn over with his other hand.  Lauren pauses, indecisive, worrying at his lip.

 

"Nothing untoward," Damen says, a soft promise, and Laurent sucks in a breath, deciding, and he knows if his eyes were open he would see a happy grin on Damen's face for the trust that he is displaying.  He is on his stomach then, burying his face in his arms on the bed, and flinches when he feels Damen shift closer, straddling him just at his hips, but Damen is careful to put none of his weight on Laurent as he gently unpins the chiton and undresses Laurent with clumsy purpose.  Then Damen's hands are on his shoulders, and Laurent  _moans_ because up until now he had been tense, unable to relax; the experience was enjoyable, to be sure, but it was  _nothing_ compared to this.  Damen's hands are working honest-to-Heaven  _magic_ on his muscles, and Laurent blushes and clamps his mouth shut on the noises that he is still making.  Damen chuckles (Laurent can feel the rumble through the skin that is touching) and bends forward, pausing to kiss the back of Laurent's head before resuming his attentions.  Laurent is practically melting into the mattress, and he has the fleeting thought that if he had known that Damen could do  _this,_ Damen would have been doing it for a very long time indeed.  Laurent feels incredible.  Damen is gently massaging his arms, one at a time, taking the same care and time as he had since the beginning and working down to his hands, his fingers, and when he finishes them they are limp at Laurent's sides.  He moves to Laurent's back, a gentle push-and-pull, and a delicious chill runs through Laurent at how  _good_ it is.

 

"Damen," he says, the groan muffled.  "You did not learn this by rubbing down  _horses._ "

 

"Horses," Damen insists, a smile in his voice, "and my own experiences after training and battle.  Nothing works quite like a hot bath and a massage when you are sore and tired and dirty."  Another gentle kiss is pressed to Laurent's body, between his shoulder blades, less innocent than the last, but Laurent is coming down now, relaxed enough to feel a good ache begin to replace the fearful one.  Damen hums tunelessly for a moment, then pitches his voice low.  "How are you feeling?  Your pulse isn't racing the way it was."

 

"Better," Laurent says with a sigh, gasping and jolting a little when Damen's hands move to his ass.  "Damen!"

 

"What?"  Damen's voice is innocent, but his hands stop and rise off his skin, less than an inch away; Damen's warm flesh is radiating heat that Laurent can still feel. Laurent props himself up and twists to glare over his shoulder.  Damen's smile is more a smirk, but a flash of guilt hovers behind his eyes and a slightly worried tilt to his eyebrows.  "You can tell me to stop if it bothers you so much."  It is a prompt, and Laurent pauses, eyes narrowing, before he flops back down, trying to ignore another wave of arousal washing through him. "Do you want a cramped ass, then?" Though his tone is light--and Laurent is slightly irritated, but overall very grateful--Damen's hands aren't moving, simply hovering, awaiting his command.

 

"Continue," he says, a lofty command if only Damen didn't know him, but Damen does and he laughs again, loudly this time, probably grinning his stupid grin.

 

"There you are," he says cheerfully, and Laurent gets the impression that this is his talking-to-horses voice, and he should be Very Offended but damn, even this feels good, so he can't be, not quite.  "There you are, Laurent."  He shifts to massage the back of Laurent's thigh.

 

Laurent finds his voice again.

 

"Damen..."

 

Damen pauses, looking up--Laurent can feel it--and murmurs, "Yes, Laurent?"

 

"Thank you."

 

Damen sounds surprised, pleased, but he bends over to kiss the small of Laurent's back, making Laurent gasp, and says, "You are welcome, my love.  So very welcome."

 

Laurent growls and crawls out from under him so he can sit and stretch luxuriously, feeling his muscles burn in a very pleasing way. He then simply looks up and stares at Damen with burning eyes.  Damen smiles sheepishly.

 

"What is it?" 

 

"Too many clothes," Laurent says shortly, uncoiling from his seat and stalking down the bed toward Damen, his prey.

 

\---

 

After, Laurent snuggles with Damen, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply, contented, utterly worn out.  Damen hums and does the same, pressing his nose into Laurent's hair and smelling him deeply, one hand massaging his scalp.  Laurent groans, voice deeper and rougher.

 

"We  _will_ be doing that again," he murmurs, and he feels Damen smirk.

 

"Which part?" he asks playfully, and Laurent yawns, shifting to get closer, satisfied when he does even though it isn't by much.

 

"All of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'm going to write all the sex scenes in the books from Laurent's POV, because I think it's largely like this. >.>''' Poor Laurent, I hope I did you justice! It's scary in your head.


	2. Kingsmute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some changes are made to the Kingsmeet. 
> 
> Laurent loses his temper.

Nikandros and Laurent had never agreed so wholeheartedly on something, which should have been a sign in and of itself. Nikandros, grim, standing uncomfortably just to Laurent's side, arms crossed, as close to glaring at Damen as he could ever possibly come. Laurent was staring from his seat across the table, wide-eyed, clammy, worry and the need to placate Damen gnawing at his gut.

"Damen, it is not an issue that you should concern yourself with," he said, nearly reduced to begging. His arms had come up to wrap around the stomach at some point in the discussion, something he knew that Damen saw, but he couldn't let go, lest he fall apart.

Damen, for his part, sighed in apparent weariness and looked down into the dregs of his wine, legs up on the table, chiton barely covering what it should; there was a familiar set to his jaw and determined tilt to his eyebrows that made the bottom fall out of Laurent's stomach. "Yes, it is. It is my kingdom--our kingdom--and they are my people--our people--and I will be doing what is right by you by correcting them."

"They will not bear the reprimand easily," Nikandros warned, wary, fully aware of Damen's awareness. "Nor the change."

"I know." Damen looked up, finally, an easy and yet a heavy acknowledgement in its simpleness. Laurent closed his eyes, swaying slightly, pulse thundering in his ears.

"Very well."

The sound of Nikandros moving to the side, toward the door. Damen had sprung the entirety of his plan, his true intentions, on them at the last moment, just as the commander of the Kingsmeet was expected to arrive, and Laurent wanted to grab Nikandros and shake him, make him fight Damen, stubborn, sweet Damen, because he could not--he could see how the very sight of him had Damen's lip curling, had dark memories flashing in his eyes. It was for Laurent that this was being done, and it was too soon, far too soon in Damen's reign as King, to be making these kinds of changes...he swallowed, hard, and forced his eyes open as the door behind him swung wide.

A white-cloaked figure swept his way into the room, dark eyes roaming around the room with disinterest. Behind him, some other white cloaks, some of the regional rulers, and Jord, who was looking around too, clearly anxious at the sudden arrival, clearly remembering the last time he had seen white cloaks.

_He had told Laurent, later, at how Damen had been returned to them: bound, tanned face unnaturally sallow and pale, shaking, weak, looking as if he might be ill or worse, covered in blood. Jord had admitted to attacking Damen over the incident, to berating him fiercely, to laying hands on him, and Laurent had only managed a faint nod, feeling ill himself. He had not truly imagined what his maneuver would do to Damen--he had been too focused on the act itself, on forcing his petrified knees to bend and his wooden mouth to move--and yet he had known that he would willingly do it again in a heartbeat, immediately, if given the chance again._

The memory of the incident burned in Damen's eyes as he bade all to sit down at the table. His eyes connected with Laurent's and a small thrill went through Laurent's body at the unspoken, fierce command there: _come_. Something must have happened to Laurent's own face, then, because Damen's brown eyes softened and his lips quirked slightly in a soothing smile. He gestured easily to the chair beside him, at his right hand, not a command; an invitation.

Laurent didn't know what else to do, just knew that he couldn't sit where he was as the white cloaks poured into the room, so he stood numbly, shifting to Damen's side, slipping into the seat next to him. Damen's hand reached for his, gently squeezing, a reassurance, before disappearing as Damen stood.

Laurent felt like he would be ill.

"I will not mince words."  Damen's hands flattened against the table, bracing him as he leaned forward.  "Some months ago, your Exalted and the Crown Prince of Vere walked into the Kingsmeet."  He surveyed the room, eyes like the dark underbelly of a thunderstorm, threatening.  "You did not know them...us.  And that is not why you have been summoned here."  He crossed his arms, looking impenetrable in a way that reminded Laurent suddenly of Auguste.

 "You have been summoned here because some changes need to be made to the way the Kingsmeet is protected."

A shift ran through the room, like a breeze or a murmur, white cloaks and chitons dancing slightly.

Damen waited for it to stop.

"Specifically," he said after a beat, making sure no one else was speaking, "the law that there is to be no violence, and the consequences of violence within the halls."

That was the thing that broke the peace.  An uproar, a cacophony, as the white cloaks lept to their feet, as the regional rulers did the same, all shouting at once.

" _Nekton of Old-_ "

"-the laws for generations-"

"-cannot be altered-"

"-such a thing courts treason-"

"-will not stand-"

Damen held up his hands in a call for silence.  Reluctantly, the assembled allowed it, sitting back down, staring at Damen with mixed emotions clear on their faces: anger, disgust, confusion, disdain.

Laurent thought he might be ill, violently, all over the table.

"Yes, the laws have stood for generations of kings.  Yes, to alter them is to alter the Kingsmeet itself."  His eyes scanned the room.  "The Kingsmeet is supposed to be a safe place, a place to gather and give counsel, even between the worst of enemies.   _Your Exalted did not find it so._  Or do you think allowing someone of royal blood to be led away by a conniving, sneaking, lying, bedswerving rapere inspires and implies safety, particularly when said creature admits to those crimes in front of the guards themselves?"

Silence from the room.  

"So you are changing our laws," one of the white-cloaked men said, "because your pretty, sniveling bedtoy was endangered in ways that were never fully explained?"  He stood and sneered-- _sneered_ \--at Damen.  

Laurent's vision bled red, his face heating.  He spoke almost without realizing.  

"You think it wise to say these things to your king?" he said, raising his voice as he spoke.

"He is less even than a coward," the man was saying to those assembled, just as loudly, ignoring Laurent.  "He is weak enough to let the Prince of Vere into his bed because of his pretty looks and bends our laws to his whims!  He is not strong enough to rule!"

Laurent was moving, standing, shoving his chair back, sweeping past a wide-eyed Damen, watching him and not the man in white-

"You are an idiot," the guard was saying, attention back on Damen, "making decisions based on the hardly-worthy, insignificant fucks you get from him and you are certainly not worthy of the crown, and I will not-"

Laurent, teeth bared, was moving, the arm bearing his cuff drawing back, and as the soldier looked at him, disdain in his eyes, Laurent let fly, a loud  _SMACK_ echoing through the room as an accompanying sting shocked the back of Laurent's hand as the soldier dropped, hard, falling against the table and sending his chair clattering away.

The room was still again, shocked and thrilled into silence, breathless as Laurent panted, eyes like blue fire and fixed on the soldier's face, arm poised to once again let fly at the slightest provocation.  

Damen hadn't moved from his standing position, mouth gaping; Laurent no attention, not to him, nor to any of the others in the room.  All eyes were fixed on him, staring, mouths likewise hanging open in utter surprise at his loss of control.  

He had eyes only for the man currently sprawled on the floor, one arm on the table as if for support, his head bowed as if to process the shock of pain across his face.

Laurent bent at the knees, grabbing the soldier's face in his hand and forcing him to look up, to make eye contact, snarling in the face of his bloodied lip and bruised cheek, a savage thrill running through him at the clear outline of his hand across the soldier's visage, a raised welt of a line through the center from the heavy gold cuff.

" _You,_ " he snarled, "have no right to speak to your King _at all,_ let alone the way you have.  If you have a death wish, I will certainly deliver; if you have a complaint, you will keep it to yourself.  You are  _lucky_ that you are not under my command, that you are not of Veretian blood, that our nations are not, as yet, unified; if you were, if they were, I would have you torn apart in the most painful of ways, and you would beg for the end before we had truly begun.   _He,_ " Laurent spat, looking up at the still-frozen form of Damen and dimly registering Damen's dropped jaw, his wide eyes, the way one hand was outstretched just slightly toward Laurent, "he is your Exalted, he is your King, and if he tells you that the laws will change then  _that is what the laws will do._ "  A rough shove had the soldier falling back onto the floor, the chair he'd been leaning against grinding against the stone.  " _Am I clear enough for you,_ irrumator?"

Panting, blotting blood from his lip, the white-cloaked soldier looked up, glaring at Laurent...but he nodded, and his glare flickered down and away in submission.

Laurent, likewise breathing heavily, jerked his lacing-laden jacket into place, and stalked back to Damen's side, pivoting once he'd arrived to glare murderously over the table.

A heavy pause over the room.

"So it is true," a large and grey-bearded kyros murmured.  "The King of Vere does have blood in his veins."  He nodded, looking to Nikandros.  "You are with him?"

"I am with him," Nikandros said, a final calmness in his voice; he had clearly weighed his answer over and over again.  "As always."

The greybeard nodded.  "I, too, am with you, Exalted."  He bowed his head to Damen.

Around the table, slowly, the wave built; murmured assent, pledges anew to the King, akin to a vote, as Laurent glowered at them, arms crossed, staring them down.

Unanimous.

The commander of the Kingsmeet Guard--Aleton, Laurent thought, not quite sure and quite past caring--stood and gave a stiff bow.  "As you say, Exalted, it will be done.  What do you wish?"

And Laurent, for the first time in what felt like years, slowly began to relax, letting his legs bend; he reached back and found his chair, taking his seat, breath returning to his chest--though his arms stayed crossed.

Damen smiled at him, and sat beside him; winding his arm around the back of Laurent's chair, making no comment when Laurent pressed just slightly into it, he addressed the assembled men, face becoming serious and stern.

"To begin with..."

* * *

After, when all the men had left for home and even Jord and Nikandros had been sent away, Laurent curled into Damen's chest.

"You were truly something," Damen said, a laugh escaping him, blowing and tumbling over itself in a huff the way they did when he had been holding them for a very long time.  "Thank you for defending my honor, my love."  Laurent hummed noncommittally, sucking in a breath that smelled of _Damen_.  After the meeting, he felt drained, tired, as if he'd fought a massive battle single-handedly; he wanted nothing more than to be near to Damen, and  _rest._

"Well," he said idly, eyelids growing tired, "I couldn't let him impugn your honor...your honor is mine, after all."  His heart was swelling in his chest, though, full of pride and love, and Damen--gorgeous, insightful Damen--noticed, of that Laurent had no doubt.

A gentle hand in his hair, massaging his scalp.  Laurent's eyes closed, muscles relaxing deliciously.  Damen chuckled.

"Of course," he agreed softly.  "It would not do for your honor to be damaged through mine, which is naturally lackluster and lacking."  A kiss to Laurent's temple.  Laurent could have purred.

"Damen?" he murmured, snuggling closer, winding his arms tighter around Damen and tangling their legs together.

"Yes, Laurent?"

Laurent yawned, feeling warm and heavy and content.

"Do shut up."

And Damen--sweet, gentle, perceptive Damen--knew that he meant a million things by those words, but that foremost and summarizing all of them was one single, three-word phrase.

_I love you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! I'm so tired and I needed to post this next chapter. xD This feels slightly rough so I may polish it just a little bit, but I couldn't wait any longer! :3 Thoughts?
> 
> (irrumator=bastard in Latin)


	3. Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is the darkest so far! Please read with caution! 
> 
> TWs: Flashbacks and panic attacks, memories of past abuse, etc. Also increased mention of sexytimes. (Though tbh I don't think anyone in this fandom is surprised by that last one, aha)

Sometimes, weight was a problem.

Sometimes, it was comforting, particularly in the mornings when Laurent could burrow closer, wiggling under Damen's arm, pressing his nose to his lover's chest.  Sometimes it was like being wrapped up in soft wool, safe and secure.  Sometimes Laurent wanted Damon on top of him, just sleeping, Damon acting as a large brown generator of heat, the warmest of blankets, making him feel safer than he would have if he had burrowed under every coverlet in the palace.  It made Laurent's rib cage feel as if it contained the sun, bright light and warmth shining through the cracks.

Sometimes, however... 

Sometimes the weight of another body, of Damen, had dark hair and deathly cold eyes flashing through his mind. Sometimes it had his skin crawling, his stomach pitching, the bile rising in his throat.  Sometimes it would attack him in the morning, when a single, sleepy arm wrapped around him, its owner sleeping deeply and emitting a soft snore, would have him squirming, worming, writhing his way out from under Damen's arm, out of the bed, and running into the restroom to heave into the chamber pot, skin clammy with cold sweat.

Sometimes it would attack him when they were in bed together, Damon's weight settled around him, propped up on his arms or his hands but still on top of Laurent, turning a moment or an hour full of ecstasy into a nothing as Laurent was consumed by a mad scramble, a panic, the terror rising in him.  Then he would be rolling onto the floor and pressing himself into a corner, watching Damon with eyes too wide, with breathing too heavy. Flaccid in an instant. 

Damen forgave him.

Damon forgave him for causing confusion, for the uncertainty that Laurent knew that he caused his lover. Damon happily obliged when Laurent wanted an extra, Damon-sized blanket in the mornings, wrapping his large and lovely arms (loosely) around Laurent, tight enough to soothe but never to startle, always slack and ready to spring open should Laurent require it.

Damon forgive him too for physical pain, which flashed across his face when Laurent pulled away from a kiss, or, as it happened once, Laurent's mad dash to a corner, to safety, caused Damon intense physical agony.  Curled in on itself himself, eyes watering, he still forgave Laurent.  Even then, with eyes full of tears, hands cupped protectively over an area which should never be kicked, he still lifted one shaking hand, reaching for Laurent, palm up, as if in supplication. A plea for Laurent to be alright, to settle down, for his breathing to stop sawing and it out of his chest, for his trembling to stop.  Even when the tears welled up in Damon's eyes, he was already working to shake off his own pain, and striving to soothe Laurent's panic-born tears away, clouding the blue eyes which were so like his uncle's. Damon had sat up, slowly stood up, still half-bent over. He had shuffled his way to Laurent with agonizingly slow, tiny steps, and once he was near he simply fell to the floor in front of Laurent, bowing his head in pain or in a show of exactly how little he intended to hurt Laurent.  

The pose had had Laurent's mind flashing back to another time, to another place, where Damen has been made to kneel before him, when the scars that were now blessedly healed (yet starkly apparent on his back) had not been there, to another time when they had been fresh and Damen's face was sallow, his life flickering like a candle, to yet another when the scars were just knitting together, ugly and raw--.

Laurent's guilt had ran him through like a blade.

"It's all right," Damen had soothed.  He always comforted Laurent, no matter how silly or stupid the care or fear.  Always the same: Damen always assured, always played with Laurent's hair and smoothed gentle fingers up and down his arms, his back, anywhere safe and unassuming.  And always Laurent felt guilt, keen and lurking, but Damen never allowed it to stay, to haunt Laurent's waking mind or his dreams.

Those nights often ended with a gentle, firm presence, a weight, around Laurent's shoulders, one of Damen's arms holding him firmly yet gently close.  Tonight, the latest of many such episodes (and probably, Laurent knew, not the last, not by a long shot), was no different, a warm brown arm visible out of the corner of Laurent's eye, the scent and presence of Damen close, pressed gently against Laurent's back.

Not always, but sometimes, when he could stand it--like tonight--the deep yet gentle breathing of Damen lulled Laurent.  Calmed his pitching stomach, soothed his racing heart, brought his panicked breathing down to a normal speed.  The tears were gone from Laurent's eyes as he closed them, and his last clear thought before sleep was how lucky he was that the Regent was so far away, cold and dead and eaten by worms and carrion birds, and how he had been blessed by Damen, his shield, his listening ear, his strong arm, his heart.

"I love you," Damen murmured into his hair, sleepy yet determined as always to stay awake until Laurent himself was sleeping.

Laurent, snuggling down, pulling Damen's arm tighter around him, lacing his fingers through Damen's and kissing his partner's fingers.

"I know.  I love you, too," he breathed as sleep finally lured him into the soft and waiting darkness.


	4. The Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff and sadness after the last one.

Laurent lent on one elbow, leaning forward, chin cradled in his palm.  The jawline wasn't quite right, and the eyes...

"A little...less," he said, feeling lame, the foreign language heavy in his mouth and on his tongue.  "I mean..."  The hand he was watching, stained with charcoal, stopped, and a pair of green eyes looked up at him.  Laurent lent back, returning suddenly to what felt like full awareness, his body coming alive and feeling hot, over-aware.  He swallowed, shifting in his chair.

The owner of the green eyes smiled and averted her gaze, shifting in her own seat.  Her dark hair swayed slightly as she tilted her head, clearly--and patiently--awaiting Laurent's next word.

He couldn't find them.

He couldn't tell her how to make the image on the page better, closer to the reality...or rather, to his memory.  What if he wasn't remembering right?  What if he hadn't been remembering right, not for a long long time?  Had he forgotten his brother's face?  He scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes stinging hard.  He could feel his pain clawing out of the pit of his stomach, up his throat.

A large, warm hand on his back made him jump, then relax into it.  There was no way that two men on the planet touched the way that Damen touched.

"Take a break?"  The King of Akielos's voice was light and effortless.  It was a smile in Laurent's ears.

He looked up.

Damen was indeed smiling.  It was gentle, and kind, and it reached his eyes.  

The young artist stood and gave a slight bow, making as if to leave.  

"No."

Laurent sighed and stood himself, rolling his shoulders a little, stretching, pacing around.  He needed to clear his head, he needed...he needed...a drink, some fresh air, something.

Damen nodded at him and gave his shoulder a squeeze.  "I'll return in a moment," he said, a promise in Veretian.  The artist smiled, a politeness, and bowed her head again as Damen's own smile lit his way out of the room.

Laurent sighed and looked at the young woman and the parchment behind her.  

_Auguste._

He squared his shoulders and stepped forward again.

"Wider eyes," he murmured, thinking hard.  "And...his lips...were thinner, but his smile was wider."  He looked down at the pretty young artist, who was scratching at the parchment with her charcoal once more, fevered in her desire to get it right this time.

Something in his chest began to radiate warmth.

* * *

 

 

"I simply think--."

Laurent narrowed his eyes at Damen, who waved the scowl away even as he broke off speaking to Laurent, leaning toward the young boy murmuring into his ear.  A smile split his face, and his eyes flickered up to Laurent's, catching his eyes.

Laurent stuck his tongue out at Damen.

The young boy smiled and scampered off as Damen stood.  He held out his hand.  "Come with me," he murmured.  "I have something to show you."

Laurent's heart throbbed, hard.  "Is it done?"  He took Damen's hand and stood as well, heart beginning to pound in his ears.  

Damen only smiled at him.  

They sidled out the side door, heading down the hall.

"Damen," Laurent said impatiently, pleading.  

"One moment more," Damen said, promising.  He grinned at Laurent, squeezing his hand.  "I promise."

"Fine," Laurent said, following Damen around a corner.  "But don't expect me to r-."  The breath left him in a gasp and he stopped as if stricken.

The portrait was there, as promised.  It was hung there, on the wall, clearly not where it was meant to stay but it was, for the moment,  _here._  And it was incredible, every single detail correct.  The young girl had used brushes so fine that every lace popped as if it were real, and his eyes...for the first time in a decade, more than a decade, Laurent looked into a pair of blue eyes that had never done him wrong, eyes that loved him...he stepped forward, mouth open slightly, struggling to breathe.  His hand loosed from Damen's, reaching up, hovering just shy of the canvas.  He wanted to touch the paint, so badly.  Only the knowledge that it wouldn't be warm kept him from doing so.

"Laurent?"

Laurent's hand jerked away and he looked up at Damen, who was blurry.  He blinked.

Damen was smiling.

"Thank you," Laurent choked.  "Thank you, I'm...thank you, it is..."

"This isn't the surprise."

Laurent blinked up at Damen, mouth opening wider.  "What do you mean?"  He looked at the portrait again.  "It's...it's perfection, Damen.  I love it."

Damen's smile, if possible, got kinder, and more excited.

"That," he repeated, placing his hands on Laurent's shoulders and turning him slowly, "is not the surprise."

Laurent gave a small scream, hand flying to his mouth.

Auguste was standing there, to the side of the doorway, as large as life and frozen in stone, and Laurent hadn't even seen him.

"I had it carved out in secret," Damen was saying, and Laurent was running forward, framing Auguste's chill cheeks in his hands.  He was perfect; perfectly smooth, and strong, and...and Damen was still talking.  "I thought he might stand at Marlas, in honor of those who died to divide our nations, and the ones who died to make it whole again."

Laurent stepped back, tears spilling over his eyelids, looking over every inch of the marble in front of him.  It was perfection.  Every lace, every fold, every wrinkle, every line.  Auguste stood before him, a ghost he could touch.

"Thank you," he whispered, his knees slowly giving out and lowering him down to the floor.  "Damen."

Damen crouched next to him, and Laurent felt his arms wrap around his shoulders once more, drawing Laurent close.

"You're welcome, of course."

Laurent's breath hitched, and his head bowed, and he wept as he hadn't since he was eight years old and dressed in funeral blacks.


End file.
